We are thrilled to speak with the judges for the 2025 Micro Madness competition, award-winning writers Renee Liang and Nuala O’Connor. This free and international competition for stories up to 100 words opens April 15. Watch for updates when it opens, here.

Flash Frontier: Let’s begin with your own small stories. Nuala, your piece, ‘A Christmas story: Earthshine’, appeared in The Irish Times on December 25, 2024, and Renee, your micro, ‘Embrace’, has been published in the newly launched Te Moana o Reo | Ocean of Languages. Could you each tell us a bit about your own approach to writing a small story? What do you pay most attention to when you write a story that is so compact? Where do you start? How do you listen to the flow? And how do you trim to get it just right?

Nuala O’Connor: For me it’s often a word that sparks me. I’ve been trying to learn more about science lately because my knowledge is gappy. I’m obsessed with the moon, so I read/write a lot about it and the word ‘earthshine’ captivated me. The story of that name was a commission, with a seasonal theme, prescribed wordcount, and a crazy-short deadline. I had this lovely word ‘earthshine’ rattling in my skull, so I riffed off it because I had to write something. The rest flowed from that. So-called constraints (word count) never bother me – I’m obsessed with smallness in literature and in objects, so I work well within tight parameters. I pay most attention to language and emotion. Plot doesn’t concern me. That grows from people.

Renee Liang: I approach small stories with a poet’s brain. In poetry, the spaces between words are as important as what is said. I think the same approach is true for flash writing. I try to concentrate the emotional through-line before I put it on the page; the narrative curve often then reveals itself.

Breath is important too: the space for the reader to pause, to fill in the gaps for themselves. Like poetry, short forms are satisfying in that they can fall on different brains in different ways. With Embrace I was talking about the very specific situation of using my ancestral language of Cantonese to reach my father as he slipped further into dementia – but people from other language cultures can relate to that in their way.

FF: You both work across genre: novel, memoir, creative nonfiction, poetry, plays. So, related to those two stories already noted, can you each talk a bit about how real life enters the stories you tell?

RL: I’ve realised that whatever I’m writing, I usually go back to telling a family story. Many of my plays deal with big issues: war, cancer, loss of connection to family, racisim. But at their heart are just humans working out their relationships to each other.

RL: Embrace is nonfiction – it’s true that our family are adapting to my dad having dementia – so what you are seeing on the page is my real life.

Speaking more generally, it’s said that the playwright is the only person who ends up being all the characters – that’s true for me. In fact, if you were to watch me on one of the lucky days when I’m in full flow you’ll see me frowning or crying as I ‘play’ each character as I write them. I was advised to always base my characters on someone real. It’s uncomfortable to borrow details from friends – I mean how could they trust me around them if they knew I did? – so I usually just try the person in the mirror first. Most characters I write have some aspect of me in them, even the old white men.

NO: I’m a realist in that I’m naturally melancholic. I’m also autistic, so I live in a state of perpetual anxiety. I do feel joy, and find light in lots of things, but my default is examination and unpicking to see how things might be better. Most of my work is about tricky or failing human relationships, and courageous women who won’t bow down and who are always seeking hope. The death of my father, and missing him, comes through in this story.

FF: And can you each paint a picture of your writing environment? Where do you spend your writing time? Does your geography support the way you write? Does the physical space impact the ideas and the way things flow? Do you have a view out a window (FF’s March theme is windows!)? Could you share a photo of your desk/ space/ view?

NO: I have a boxroom study. It’s full of books, boxes of notebooks, pictures, trinkets, a noticeboard for whatever novel I’m working on with relevant photos/images. I love my desk, love this room, it’s a sanctuary, where I feel most balanced and at peace. I don’t notice the space when I’m writing, I really just disappear into the work, but the quiet helps. I live at the end of a cul de sac, on the side of a horse showground, so it’s nicely peaceful outside. I like looking at images, though, or touching talismans from research visits – stones, shells, etcetera. That grounds me in the physical space of the writing.

RL: I used to dream of having a writing desk, a view out a window, my shelves of books and gear at my fingertips. I got my dad’s gorgeous carved rosewood desk when he retired – it was the one he used in his consulting room for decades – and it came with matching shelves. But I’m a piler, so even though the desk is in a perfectly well-lit study (shared with my husband, who is tidy and also working on a book), I usually end up working anywhere I can find space – the kitchen table, the bed, and more recently a romantic vintage chaise-lounge I convinced my husband we needed. I also realised that even if I have a view I ignore it, so a window is unnecessary. I travel a lot, so being able to work from anywhere is handy!

While I’m not picky about the space, I an very protective of my noise environment. I can’t work if there’s music or TV on (though weirdly I can work in the middle of a busy space filled with people talking or playing sport).  I envy the people who look effortlessly cool working in a cafe, but I’ve tried it, and even noise cancelling headphones can’t filter it out.

FF: Nuala, can you talk briefly about your two most recent novels, Nora and Seaborne, both taking historical figures and re-creating in novel form. If you had to summarise what each is about – the conceptual or thematic focus, we mean – what would that be? Are they in some ways similar in the philosophy underlying each project?

NO: Yes, they are about maverick women who pushed against societal norms to live lives that would not been expected of them, given their social status. Nora Barnacle ran away to Europe with James Joyce and became his rock, anchor, and muse; Anne Bonny ran away to the Caribbean and became a pirate. I’m drawn to brave, unconventional women. I want women’s stories blasted from the mountains so that we can acknowledge their fierce power.

FF: And Renee, your work is also – always – very much about voice, whether as a memoirist or poet or librettist. Can you tell us about your recent projects, and how that central notion of voice plays a central role?

RL: By voice do you mean story? I am passionate about story sovereignty – if a story isn’t mine to tell I will ask for permission before I start work, and I strongly advise all writers I mentor to do the same. Once there is permission there’s also the idea of stewardship – staying true to the character, using research or in-person experience to build up the feel of the environment and the layers of history.  Of course, the hand of the author should never be seen (unless that is a deliberate style choice.)

When it comes to the nonfiction work, I do like to let my personal foibles come out. I have a sly sense of humour and I’m always trying to catch the reader with a surprise funny moment. In my columns and essays, I am passionate about issues – especially ethnic rights, equity and justice. I prefer to be loud on those.

FF: This year has started out hard all over, to say the least. The stories we tell are the way we bring light to dark times, or the way we sometimes document the most difficult of circumstances. Do the events of the world impact the way you write, and how are you seeing this in other creative works around you? How has your own creative light found its space to shine in 2025?

RL: I think writers have a deep responsibility to reflect the world as they see it. That means, for me, being present, actively listening to stories, feeling how my body responds. This necessarily then flows through into my writing. My work reflects the time in which I write them, even if it’s not necessarily set in the present. But then that’s the time period my audience/ readers receive them, too.

I’m in Canada as I write this and have been going to see all the local theatre. Even though the works I’m seeing speak to historical events – the Cambodian killing fields of the 1970s, indigenous land rights campaigners against developers in Canada, the Umbrella Movement in Hong Kong – they resonate intensely with the present: dictators and despots seem to always find a way to rise again.  But also, these works through their characters’ journey also remind us of enduring humanity. We have survived before and will survive again, and some of us will stay human while we do so.

NO: I’ve been pretty depressed since Christmas, finding it very hard to think positively or feel good about much. I cringe listening to the news. I also had a writing setback that knocked me sideways and made me, once again, think about stopping trying to get published at all, because it is such a hard space to be in, financially and for the spirit.

Poetry has been saving me – writing it and reading it. I write about my own coming to terms with my (sometimes) annoying brain; about grief; about war/politics. It’s pleasing to get it down, to figure it out, to examine it. I read and listen to a huge variety of poets, and bask in their stunning work. Doctor Writing is always my healer.

FF: Let’s talk about the Micro Madness competition. Micros can take on many forms and we’ve seen all of it in the years we’ve run this competition: some storylike, some prose-poem in nature, some lists, some dialogue-based. Some capture a tiny moment and some open up a whole world. What do you think the most important qualities of a micro are?

NO: Attention to language; a little songlike burst of meaning or wordsmithery; unity of purpose or sound. I don’t need straight story, per se, but I like to be lit up by either the words or the message.

RL: For me, it’s about curiosity and emotion. A micro should open a small door, or change the grass under our feet. It’s not about being small and perfectly formed – though I do appreciate a perfect form, I also love it when there are lots of untied bits I can then imagine the endings of. The brevity of the form (and therefore, perhaps, the time needed to generate one) means experimentation is easy – we can generate many until there’s one that makes us stop. Then that’s the one you edit.

FF: And now, more specifically: What will you be looking for as you read this year’s entries to the Micro Madness competition? Three top tips for people interested in submitting?

NO:

1. Bring your best original self to the page.
2. Everything is fit for stories – don’t censor your subject.
3. Delight us with language.

RL: Just as with any other genre, it’s hard to place absolute boundaries on what works or doesn’t. I love works that take risks and try new things. I love surprise. But I also love works that are the perfect example of their form. The only broad advice I’d give to entrants is to edit, play, edit, play, then edit again. The work you put it – even in a short form piece – becomes really visible. And have fun!

FF: Many thanks to you both – we look forward to celebrating the micro in 2025! And now, may we share a bit of your work?

Two stories by Nuala O’Connor

 

Yellow

At the entrance, a woman hands each of us a net. When I imagined this moment, I saw us being given a single net. We would move as one, four hands on the handle, catching our baby together.

‘Twice the chance,’ Rob hisses, snapping the net like a riding crop.

Yes, I think, yes. Double the opportunity. One hundred per cent better. Yes, yes!

We run side by side down the corridor, with all the other hopefuls, into the dome. I see babies high in the roof space, they helicopter and dive. The air smells of talc and scalp. A Pink with putto thighs flies towards me and I shove past a man and try to net her. She dodges upwards and skims sideways. I jump high, knocking against the man again, but I miss.

‘Get fucked!’ the man screams at me and chases the Pink, arcing his net wildly but it meets empty air.

Up ahead I see Rob dip his net under a drifting Blue.

‘Stop!’ I shout, waving my arms. We agreed Pink and the rules are clear: one baby per couple. If Rob snags a Blue, it is over. ‘What the hell are you at?’ Rob steps back from the Blue and holds his palms out in surrender. ‘Pink,’ I snarl.

Then I see it, executing a cocky glissade above all the Pinks and Blues – a Yellow. Its face is turtlish but it looks strong. It seems unconcerned as it streels across the dome, surveying the waggle of a hundred nets and the anxiety of the would-be parents below. I catch the Yellow’s eye and it holds my gaze.

‘Come to me,’ I whisper.

Keeping watch on its robust body, I see it gravitate towards me. The Yellow’s eyes are clear and bright; it stares at me as if in recognition. I lift my net then let it fall to the floor. I open my arms and the Yellow descends, poised as a hawk.

The baby snuggles its head to my breast and Rob is suddenly at my side, placing his hand respectfully on the little one’s beautiful head. We look at each other and smile. We look back at the baby. Our golden child. Our Yellow.

Published in The Irish Times, June 14, 2017

A Christmas Story: Earthshine

The old moon was in the new moon’s arms that December night, and I was trying to forgive transgressions – mine and others’ – and failing. I didn’t know yet that the year ahead would hold undoing after undoing….

Published in The Irish Times, December 24, 2024

Read the whole story here.

 

Story by Renee Liang

from Te Moana o Reo | Ocean of Languages

 

Embrace

At three, English coursed through my arteries, overwhelming my native Cantonese. My father tried to rescue me, begging me to breathe: tou hei! I refused. I was already underwater, growing new gills. Now, at fifty, I am the one holding my father afloat as his memories drain. He spoke four languages, now he’s lost the German and is starting to lose his English. So, I use my infant Cantonese. Gnor lei. Lei la? I come, come on. I nourish him with tiny breaths: chor dai? sic faan. Sit, eat. I encourage him as he takes unsteady steps, repeating the words I hear my mother use. Maan maan lei, take it slowly. The words puff out of surprised alveoli. Pockets of language, the words diffusing into me, hitting my bloodstream like oxygen, travelling to my neurons. Pathways activating that I didn’t know were still there. My father smiles. He knew all along. Our breaths rise, become clouds. Embrace.

 

Author commentary (also included in the book)

我的父母於1972年從香港移民至新西蘭 (New Zealand)

(奧特羅亞 Aotearoa). 我在一年後的春天降臨。重拾粵語作為身份與母語的旅程，或許對我而言並不陌生。在我學會言語之前，粵語早已深植心田，如根扎土。雖然我曾因文盲與幼稚語法而感到羞愧，但成年之後，使用它卻為我帶來了無盡的聯繫與豐富的滋養。

My parents emigrated to Aotearoa from Hong Kong in 1972.

I was born a year later. My journey towards reclaiming Cantonese as identity and mother tongue may be familiar. Cantonese seeded deep in my brain before I could talk. While I’m still ashamed of illiteracy and toddler grammar, using it as an adult brings me such connection and richness.

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Renee Liang is a second-generation Cantonese poet, playwright, writer and dramaturg whose work explores family dynamics, identity and belonging, weaving intimate narratives with contemporary sociocultural narratives and historical moments in Aotearoa.

 

 

Nuala O’Connor lives in Co. Galway, Ireland. Her poetry and fiction have been widely published, anthologised, and won many literary awards. Her sixth novel Seaborne, about Irish-born pirate Anne Bonny, is nominated for the Dublin Literary Award and was shortlisted for Eason Novel of the Year at the 2024 An Post Irish Book Awards. Her novel NORA (New Island), about Nora Barnacle and James Joyce, was a Top 10 historical novel in the New York Times. She won Irish Short Story of the Year at the 2022 An Post Irish Book Awards. Her fifth poetry collection, Menagerie, is published by Arlen House in spring 2025. www.nualaoconnor.com

Flash collection: https://www.kennys.ie/shop/Birdie-O-Connor-Nuala